


I wonder how it feels to wake up sober, and you don’t want to hear any sound bites.

by betweenhellandyou



Category: Gameboys (Web Series 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ash Malanum, Filipino dialogue has English Translations, M/M, Philippine BL Series, Rapper x Bassist Gameboys AU, The IdeaFirst Company, mainly english
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27008113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenhellandyou/pseuds/betweenhellandyou
Summary: “What do we have in common?” The rapper asked the bassist.“Poetry.” It answered, “Poems are the language we use to figure out the enigma that is love.”-A songfic-ish AU. One-shot. Title from the band Flyte’s song lyrics of “Little White Lies”.I claim no ownership over neither ‘Gameboys: The Web Series (2020)’ nor any of the songs I used in this fic.[Predominantly written in English. Filipino dialogues have included translations.]
Relationships: Gavreel Alarcon/Cairo Lazaro
Comments: 16
Kudos: 27





	I wonder how it feels to wake up sober, and you don’t want to hear any sound bites.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello beautiful people! Please don't forget to leave a kudos and comment!
> 
> Votes and comments on Wattpad are also appreciated.
> 
> Thank you, love y'all for reading! Stay safe! Also, #OustDuterte pa rin.
> 
> Listen to the song on Spotify here: https://open.spotify.com/track/6JKe3MKueTRxsMsBlvSrEM?si=ZOQTeDlnS4-z9RN6W3My9w

**I wonder how it feels to wake up sober, and you don’t want to hear any sound bites.**

Word Count (7,583)

_God is he beautiful._

He looks so stunning, basked in the shadows of the morning light like this; yet so unreachable – his tan skin is obviously a possession of the spotlight.

Gavreel Alarcon, lead vocalist and bassist of the band “Bai”, is freshly awakened sitting on the windowsill of his apartment.

He’s holding a mug of coffee in his hands, (the white one with a faded UK flag print on it – and also which he brought to Cairo’s years ago) and the apartment is comfortingly quiet at this early in the morning.

The mellow tunes of _“If We’d Never Met”_ by Gabe Bondoc softly plays in the background.

Cairo’s fixed up his camera, grabbing it quickly from his leather sling bag lying on the floor.

This man in front of him, dripping in smooth caramel skin, looks _too_ effortlessly good right now for him not to take a quick photo shoot of Gavreel.

Oh, but he does look this magnificent _every_ morning.

It’s not like Cairo can ever get used to it, right?

They’re matching with their last night’s sleepwear. Gavreel’s in a tight white sleeveless undershirt, and a pair of flare khaki pants. On the other hand, Cairo is wearing his own tee matched with velvet red disco pants.

Gavreel hasn’t noticed his sudden camera flashes.

He has taken a couple of fine ones, but he needs _more._ It’s been two and a half minutes tops, with Cairo using this as his morning stretch – although not really, he doesn’t have to move as much to capture this man’s beauty.

A lazy, perhaps even accidental press of the ‘click’ button on the Nikon camera will take a remarkable photo of _the_ Gavreel Alarcon.

Until, said man, finally notices the shutter of Cairo’s camera. “Cairo, ang aga-aga ayan agad inaatupag.” _(“Cairo, it’s so early in the morning and that’s the first thing you busy yourself with?”)_

When Gavreel says this, he doesn’t bother moving from where he’s sitting.

This unbothered man simply fixes the way his legs are crossed, and continues to sip his coffee while staring into the view from the window.

_Sungit. (Meanie.)_

_Your_ sungit, _(Your meanie,)_ a voice (probably Gavreel’s) corrects Cairo in his head.

“Hm, but,” Cairo clicks the camera again, once, twice, thrice. He pushes his hair back, adjusting the angle of the lenses closer to Gavreel’s close-up profile.

_Click._

He breathes a happy sigh, reviewing his latest shot of Gavreel.

The man’s strong jaw is pronounced, his round eyes giving off a little sparkle, and his pair of luscious lips, that are no doubt extremely kissable.

Although his curls are still in a bedhead state, they twirl in outward directions that make it seem natural without a touch of prep.

Doing wonders, in short. (Not like Gavreel needs them to, him alone is perfection enough.)

“You don’t seem to mind.” Cairo flips through his shots of Gavreel, a hand resting on the hip as he adjusts the strap of his camera around the neck.

“Do I?” Gavreel chuckles, finally twisting his sitting position to face Cairo. “Nah, I’m kidding. Go on, can’t take enough of this?”

He does different poses; smoothing his hair with a hand, holding a check sign over his chin, the cutesy, silly, and irritating kind – but Cairo doesn’t fret, it’s true anyway.

Gavreel Alarcon is every inch of the word definition of “ _beautiful”._

_Click. Click. Click._

There’s a particular shot that’s secretly his favorite, it’s the one where he caught Gavreel in mid laughter. His pearly white teeth glistening in a huge widely outstretched open-mouthed chuckle.

It’s even more hilarious because when Gavreel laughs, he’s bent over backwards in joy but there’s no sound to his laughs.

A _mime,_ type of laughter, if you must. His smile is too big; the gum lines almost sticking out, just pure unbridled joy.

The kind of sight Cairo only wants to see from him, _always._

The word is bursting at his tongue, a buzz of sentimentality, having Gavreel like this during particular mornings together. _Beautiful,_ he wants to say.

Again, and again, and again.

Cairo can think of it _plenty,_ this man is **gorgeous.**

Yet it can’t come close, to the sudden butterflies on his stomach, during times of their lives like this, that urge him to _just tell him._

 _Just tell him,_ he even scolds himself.

But for some reason.

Cairo doesn’t risk it.

He never has.

“Gimme that,” Gavreel slurps his coffee, then motions with his fingers for Cairo to hand him the camera.

Wearing the camera strap around his neck, he puts down the mug on the windowsill. Cairo lies down on the bed again to check the notifications on his phone.

There is the usual ten thousand plus mentions on his Twitter, Instagram, those sorts of accounts. But so far, no one important like his manager has left him a worrying amount of calls or texts.

Gavreel must’ve got bored from swiping through the pictures. He’s left the mug on where he sat, and is now pulling the covers to share with Cairo among the pillows.

When Cairo gets an idea.

It’s time to rise anyway, so what better way to keep them ready to cook breakfast and start the day?

“Hold on, rock star.” Cairo holds him steady by the wrist, his phone placed neatly on the nightstand.

He continues to touch Gavreel’s arm, “Teka . . . sandali. Patingin nga ng mga kuko mo,” _(Wait . . . a minute. Let me see your nails,)_

“So, whaddaya say?” He giggles, ready with the nail polish bottle he took from the bedside drawer.

Gavreel only returns his smile. “Sure, baby.”

Cairo’s not a professional manicurist, or someone who paints nails often, enough to do a good job of decorating his hand.

But Gavreel will let him – like he always does.

It must be a good thing, because when Gavreel arrives at the band’s concert rehearsals, he’s wearing an oversized sweater. Its wool sleeves hanging low on his arms, his hands totally covered by the fabric.

He plays the bass guitar lively, as usual, the frenzied combination of moves; head bangs, arm pounds, footstep taps.

It’s electric. The thrill of playing the bass, to their fantastic written songs, and watching him on stage absolutely _kill it_ even if it’s just the live rehearsals.

So . . . it must be the _best_ ~~good~~ thing, that only when Gavreel Alarcon, the illustrious bassist of the band “Bai” takes a water break, adjusting the dog tag around his neck that he reveals his chipped, colored with black polish **nails.**

He’s got a photo sitting cross-legged on the stage, in the mid of rehearsals, unaware of his badly manicured nails in the center of the spotlight.

Of course, this image was randomly shot (or not) by a fan or by the band’s publicity manger, which goes around Twitter pretty quickly.

Many fans gush over his utterly adorable, precious, or whatever else adjectives they use to describe a cute detail of their idol.

It roams around the Internet, making noise with both the softness and what comedic relief this photo of Gavreel sends:

‘@gavreelkicks | his nails are so cute !!!!!! oh babe where did you get a manicure?’

‘@BAILEGEND09 | why are his nails chipped shdgsjdhsh this is too cute pls i-‘

‘@bassbussyplayer | GAVREEL HOLD ON LEMME GET YOU A NEW MANICURE ILL CHANGE MY @ TO @/gavreelschippednails’

This goddamn photo; also fills the newspapers first thing the next morning, **_‘SPOTTED: The band ‘Bai’ set to have a concert this November! Sneak a peek!’_**

While eating lunch, quite cozy in the leather chair of his recording booth, Cairo can only _laugh_ at the headlines on his timeline.

_

The room is painted black. A flimsy orange curtain hangs on the background of the set, the interviewer – Syd Romero is sitting opposite Gavreel on the couch.

He’s wearing a white shirt, a casual suit jacket draped over the material, some slacks, and a pair of classic converse sneakers.

It’s his last interview for today.

The time is 8:46 PM in the evening, and he’s about done and ready to fall asleep on the bed once he gets home.

But here’s to finishing his work schedule first.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome to the show, Gavreel. It’s been a while since we had you, so how’re you feeling? How’s the tour been going?”

Cairo fidgets a tiny bit in his sleeping position, his manager on the front seat (bless her, Leila or his actual mother is his own manager, _of course_ ) furrows her brows.

She gives London who’s at the further back seat, a questioning raise of eyebrow. As if to ask, _‘is your brother just having a bad dream or . . . some creative genius for a rap song? What’s bothering that child?'_

What an ever-protective mother. She’s always been attuned to her sons’ every move or feeling.

Especially when it’s regarding _matters of the heart._

But London, as clueless as she is, merely shrugs. His reply’s sort of like _‘I’ve got no idea, mom. Don’t ask me. How am I supposed to know what’s going on his head?’_

Their silent (almost telepathic) exchange of facial cues hits a stop when Cairo talks. 

“Turn on the radio, please.” The boy murmurs, eyes still shut but it’s clear he has woken up from his nap.

Their driver winds up the play button, the radio channel 52.20 FM coming alive.

_The Syd-thesis Late Night Talks is live on air._

“Hey, Syd. I’m okay so far, yeah, and the tour is going great. I missed my band mates, y’know? I missed them my “bai”s.”

Cairo resists the creeping grin on his face; it always warms his heart seeing how Gavreel is in a good relationship with his band.

They after all, are a bunch of softies just with tough exteriors – that reporters can easily label as “fuck boys” but in truth, aren’t.

He, of all fellow artists, is _sure_ of this.

And thing is, Cairo would only like to assume that if they could, he’d be the one at Gavreel’s side every waking moment. Every chance they could get.

Only if they could.

Only if it were in an alternative universe, and they would just be plain, old and simple Cairo and Gavreel – without the fame of it all, rip off the star bassist and legendary young rapper.

If they could pick, he guesses Gavreel would choose they live somewhere calm and breezy like a beachside.

Cairo would want them to stay by a tiny apartment in Soho, and he knows they won’t give any fucks anyway, if it were too cramped for their liking.

Two boys in . . . love . . . with the mediocrity of the world’s ways, yet probably sporting much less fun careers, having boring lives to live.

Nonetheless, they’d try to make it happy right?

Right?

“Good, good. What a nice thing to hear, but hold on, buddy – we scrambled for the latest news headlines on you, so what’s this we hear about _a certain girl?”_

Gavreel had to do a double take, pausing his laughter. He simply grimaces.

Like how nurses have charged the defibrillator onto a patient’s chest to its last bits of energy, and voila: the sound of flat lining drains out the entire room.

“These photos of the both of you are just, ugh so adorable! Isn’t she model Sylvia Salvador? It must be great being in the same industry. You guys look quite happy in these–,”

Gavreel clears his throat. “Well, sure. She’s . . . she’s uh,”

The interviewer just continues. “It must be great being in the same industry. The fans are just raving, so, well? Can we finally get an answer?”

_Gavreel wants to jump out of the nearest window._

“No point in denying it, right? Slyvia, yeah, she’s _incredible._ We’ve gone on a few dates, maybe, yeah.”

He says this with such precision, like how his PR manager taught him. Before interviews, they practiced how things should go smoothly in successfully doing this stunt.

They practiced it in a one-on-one fashion; how his _newest celebrity girlfriend_ would come in the mix, that Sylvia was kind to cooperate by being on the call as they discussed the details.

It went according to plan anyway, the couple of weeks before tonight. Their photos were released on time, a string of curated “caught red-handed” shots of the sickeningly in love couple.

Choreographed pictures like the two holding hands while walking on the road, Gavreel ‘mighty’ by shooing paparazzi away, Slyvia in a sweet candid shot of giggling, as he tries to slow dance with her in the concert backstage, the classic making-out in the car until the lights show up.

“You heard it here first, folks! It sounds like she’s the reason for that smile in your face, isn’t that right my man?”

 _She isn’t._ But he just complies, taking a deep breath and forcing a wider smile.

“You can say that. Yes, she makes me happy.”

Gavreel’s more than sure of the _real_ reason behind his happiness.

This is a cutthroat industry, where you got to play your cards right as one move could make you sacrifice everything that matters to you.

Yet they’re still playing the game, not exactly kings per say, but it’s close to survival.

He remembers this conversation with Cairo, when he had to tell him about doing a PR stunt with Sylvia.

( _You have to kiss her, then, a couple of times. Yeah?_

Cairo has looked away from his gaze, moving his eyes directly to the dog tag pressed on Gavreel’s sweaty chest.

 _It’s part of the whole ordeal, yeah._ He replies, scratching his nails lightly on the other man’s back.

The person lying across his body is quiet for a while, and it irks Gavreel because he always wants to know what’s on his mind.

And maybe it’s wishful thinking that Cairo is bothered by something right now.

Until Cairo says, _Just don’t let her kiss you like this,_ locking his lips fiercely against Gavreel’s.

He’s flipped them over, hands over hands roaming over the acres of skin available.

Lips over lips, teeth over teeth, sweat cascading over the mountainous curves of each other’s bodies.

This itself – is a song track – feat Cairo’s freestyle rap, each of his earthshattering moans, and animalistic growls, the harmonies of Gavreel’s measured smooth picking fingers, across the most sensitive areas . . .

Oh, how he could show off his bass strumming skills through traversing onto the man’s rosy porcelain skin.

And _“right there, just right there”_ what a shame, there’s no button to record these soul mates of melodies, even an _orchestra_ would shriek in embarrassment, just the syncopation of crazily talented lovers making raw music.

He comes first, letting out a breathless cry, with Cairo following closely after.

(They’re never that far from each other, it’s just how things between them are.)

Then he proceeds to trap Gavreel’s body with his arms, playing with his curls, pulling him under him almost automatically.

Cairo kisses him again, full on the lips, telling him _got that? And we’ll be fine._

It’s the most aggressive fuck they’ve had in such a long time. And, well. Here’s to doing more sanitary ones.

The basement of Cairo’s apartment (the one they use for a photo-shoot earlier the day) is intensely wrecked.

The mattress their team took effort carrying down is plain bedraggled, and Gavreel can’t figure out whose shirt was ripped apart.

Cairo reminds himself that they’ll have to stick to slightly less ear-splitting sex, whilst Gavreel just ticks off _loud sex with Cairo_ in his bucket list.

Plus, Gavreel’s makeup stylist is always frustrated because the concealer keeps running out just to cover his _hickeys_.)

Back in the car, Cairo all but wants to _smile_ – because he should, shouldn’t he?

He should be happy for _the_ bassist Gavreel Alarcon finally finding a ladylove, but why isn’t he?

Gavreel let him know, before fully jumping into this stint with lovable Slyvia, he _made it a point_ to let him _know_ first.

He knows, fuck it if he knows, but why in the fucking fuck is he still unable to stretch his lips into a small smile?

The whole car ride falls silent (although Cairo wasn’t spared from the judging stares of his mom and brother) until they arrive home, until when he steps out to enter their doorstep his phone vibrates in his pocket.

A smile immediately forms around his stupid face. Cairo’s typing a reply, when another text appears.

Cairo blames it all on his texts that night, because those can’t be the reason why he stayed awake staring blankly at the ceiling with a _dumb smile_ on his face thinking of Gavreel.

**–**

****

**_PASS OR PLAY?_ **

_CAIAMAZING THE OFFICIAL RAP CONCERT._

_SAVE THE DATE. 6. 27. 2021._

Cairo stares at the poster, in a wide inch screen centered against the thick white walls of the Philippine Arena grounds.

He’s waited this moment for so long, now it’s finally here.

There were many sleepless nights of rehearsing. Cairo remembers the ghost ache of in-ear earphones, heavy steps of backup dancers’ heels, and the blasting sound system . . .

It’s not like he hasn’t performed for a large crowd, but – it’s his _first ever_ _concert_ – the debut of Cairo Lazaro as a hits-charter rising rapper.

He can’t fucking believe it, but suddenly going viral on Youtube for one track, then releasing a single, and eventually an album would drag him to _this._

Oh man _,_ how Cairo wants to visit and hug his seven year-old younger self in their house attic, who was practicing beat boxing and rap.

The starry-eyed boy would be so proud of who he grew up to be.

Of course, it was Gavreel who was one of the first persons he told the good news.

**To: _B_**

_You busy? Sleeping? Anyway, call me whenever you can. ASAP! I’ve got news._

But damn if Gavreel Alarcon was faster than speed, because he called him five seconds after reading his text.

_“Is this what I think this is?”_

His tone was very excited, like Gavreel could burst any minute.

_“Cai, don’t fuck with me . . . “_

_“Cairo?”_

_“Baby?”_

_“ . . . Baby?”_

Cairo chuckled, telling him first, _“Open your camera. Wanna see your damn face,”_

Gavreel quickly obliges. _“So?”_

_“I’m having my first fucking concert.”_

_“Fuck yeah, baby! You wanna celebrate? We should fucking celebrate! To hell with it, let’s pop champagne! Screw ‘em shitless!”_

_“You that excited, for me, baby? Hold on, hold on, I can’t take any of this, ugh, ‘s too mushy and cute. You’re cute.”_

_"To fuck I AM excited for you, baby. You’re not so bad yourself. But yeah, let’s schedule it.”_

_“Yes, please. Anywhere. Anywhere as long as it’s with you.”_

_“How do you feel about celebrating in a yacht?”_

Until thirty minutes before show time, Cairo gets a panic attack.

His make-up’s done, the red-winged eyeliner on place, when he looks up to the bathroom mirror that a fury strikes him.

Then he’s unsteady.

His knees fall to the ground. Cairo tries to hold onto the sink, but he’s too weak to stay put.

The space around him feels unreal, it’s almost spinning. His heartbeat is racing; it accelerates its pace faster than the flow of his rap songs.

Monster-like voices whisper in his ear, ‘ _How are you supposed to perform now? You don’t deserve any of this.’_

A vicious pain is ramming his chest, it’s circling around the center like an indestructible force field; his throat also feels tight, as if he’s being strangled by an invisible hand.

_‘Did you really believe your dreams were coming true? You’re such a disgrace.’_

He feels the dryness in his mouth, his lips as rough as the texture of paper-thin skin.

Chills shoot up his spine, onto his entire body, which all the more freezes him into that corner near the door – he can’t move, why can’t he fucking _move?_

_‘No one loves you. No one is willing to take care of you. No one wants to stay with you.’_

Cairo’s breath has stopped short; he’s covered in cold increasing sweat all over, his extremities are numb while experiencing tremors.

_‘You’re worthless.’_

And _fuck,_ his head seems to be jamming onto this ache, and with one hard gasp for air, Cairo reaches for the phone in his pocket.

Hitting his speed dial, the line begins to ring.

The person still doesn’t pick up when it’s almost at its fourth ring.

He shuts his eyes, trying to calm himself but he all but fails.

Cairo helplessly mutters, hitting his head onto the door, “F-Fucking p-please, Gav. P-Please a-answer,”

Until he finally hears the sound of Gavreel’s voice.

“Hey, is everything alright? I’m in a shoot right now, so maybe I can’t–,”

Cairo thought listening to his voice would naturally calm his nerves down, but it _isn’t_ that easy now.

But Gavreel senses his crying, wants to immediately hug him close, _oh, so close, and shield him from the rest of this damn world._

“Cairo, hold on, hold on. Hold on, I need a damn minute!”

On the other line, Cairo hears the sounds of shuffling, the heavy footsteps of Gavreel walking somewhere into this muted room.

He speaks more clearly when he says, “Can you hear me better now?”

The boy can’t respond. Cairo’s whimpers continue, his grip on his chest still tight.

“What happened?”

Despite his sniffles, Cairo responds in a small voice, “I-I’m too s-scared, I w-wanna r-run away,”

“Shit. Okay, okay, I think you’re having a panic attack. Can you try describing to me how you’re feeling?”

“. . . “

“Cai?”

When Cairo begins to speak, the tears flow onto his cheek without stoppage.

“All I-I know is, I feel like I c-can’t push through w-with this concert. I f-feel like, l-like I just can’t. I d-don’t deserve a-any of t-this, it’s-it’s b-been a mistake,”

Although he can’t see him, Gavreel keeps shaking his head because it’s not true. _Cairo, stay with me, you’re worth it._

“Listen to me. Your state of distress is _valid,_ okay? It’s understandable that you’re suddenly overcome with these thoughts. But allow me to get you through this – is that alright?”

When Cairo doesn’t say anything, only nods, Gavreel tries to say, “Cai, you can do it. You have to try to talk to me,”

“Yes. I-I’ll t-try my best.”

“It’s sure is taking me **everything** not to walk-out of this photo shoot and drive straight _to where you are,”_

“Tell me now, C-Cairo.” Gavreel firmly tells him, and he can imagine his gritted teeth and tightly scrunched together thick eyebrows.

“You have to tell me, _goddamnit,_ now. I swear to fuck, Cai. Or else I’ll–,”

Cairo sobs **_louder._ **He’s quick to catch a breath, and stutter into the phone, “S-Stop it, G-Gav. Mm, you’re n-not, that’s–t-that’s not, ghsdhf, not h-helping,”

“Fuck. Sorry. My bad, ‘twas my bad. I’m sorry,”

Gavreel composes himself, taking a deep breath; _Cairo is in pain. He needs you. You got this, do it for him._

One last exhale, before he more calmly asks Cairo, “How bad is it, _baby?”_

Gavreel continues.

He’s more than determined to ease Cairo’s overwhelming state, especially during attacks.

“It’s fine, you’re fine. You can tell me, y-you know that right? You _can_ do this, Cai.”

Cairo still can’t fully breathe properly, but it helps. Even a little.

“Let’s try to ground you, alright? Baby, I’m sorry I can’t be there to hold your hand, but if you want to, find a textured object like your phone to feel it.”

He grips on his phone harder. Cairo begins to caress his phone case, trying to ground himself to this reality. _You’re fine, Cai. This is real. This is real._

“I know your case’s got that rough texture, right?”

“Okay, next you can stretch or move around if you want to.”

Cairo slowly stands up, placing his phone on top of the bathroom sink, to pace around the room for a few moments.

“Then you can sit back down, baby. Can you repeat after me, _‘this feels awful, but it’s not going to hurt me’?”_

He takes a long deep breath. “T-This feels awful, but it’s n-not going to h-hurt me.”

“Yes, that’s it, baby. You’re doing great. You got this.”

“This f-feels awful, but it’s not going to hurt m-me.”

“You can do it, Cai. One last time, for me?”

A deep exhale. “This f-feels awful, but it’s not going to hurt me.”

He’s still tightly clutching the fabric on his chest, his fingers and limbs shaking uncontrollably, the sounds of his cries have slowly softened.

“How are you feeling? Did any of it . . . help?”

“It feels a lot better, Gav. T-Thanks.”

_Months later, when it’s Gavreel who gets a panic attack in the middle of the airport – Cairo also successfully manages to help him through it._

“No problem. But Cai?”

“Y-Yeah?”

“Believe me when I say this, you deserve everything of this – and more. You’re fucking worthy; I’d say that even if I got down on my _damn_ knees to prove it, you’re talented, a visionary, passionate, and hardworking. You’re a goddamn hero, because you’ve saved my life, too many times to count.”

Cairo sputters, “G-Gav,”

“I’m dead-on serious. I’ll remind you over and over again, until our hairs turn gray if I have to. This world needs you, despite it not deserving you enough.”

Gavreel’s quiet on the other line for a while, until he speaks again.

“It’s why billions find it easy to love you, Cairo.”

He continues to stammer in his words, “But t-that’s not n-necessary, Gav, I-I-,”

“ _I love you,_ don’t you know by now? I’ll be there soon – front row, and fuckin’ VIP. Congrats in advance, baby.”

He hangs up.

Cairo’s heart is beating wildly in his chest, but it’s doing _happy_ skips that pump his energy to get ready for his performance.

_As I, you, my bassist._

–

When they travel, it’s a bit of a hassle.

First few times they visited Japan (with Cairo’s friends), to avoid any scandals, they are careful not to be seen to close together.

Gavreel purposely falls behind the gang, just to walk from a point where he gets to see Cairo.

But then he quickly remembers they can’t hold hands in public, or make-out like two lovesick fools, and can’t even enjoy the mere privilege of staring at each other.

Their kind of love has been condemned by society for ages; this merciless belief that stands on the praise for the exalted bible.

It is unashamedly cruel and unjust for crucifying those who choose to love differently.

So, they settle for the tiniest bits of intimacy during these times – only their fingers brushing as they stroll the Shibuya Street.

During one tour of Gavreel’s band, they perform in Glasgow, Scotland for the week.

Luckily, Cairo’s schedule was a bit flexible that year and so there he comes dragging his baby to where he was going to be for a couple of days.

The tabloids were filled with their photos.

They were too close in a corner, at a table in a pub (was it The Lismore or Stravaigin?), both blissfully beer-drunk, and their cheeks flushed.

But can you blame them?

It was because Gavreel’s eyelashes were too enticingly soft, the feel of them against Cairo’s cheeks so tender, and, no, they weren’t exactly playing a game of _tongue hockey_ – but they kept pawing each other senseless.

_Because god, why does he smell so good right now? I want to turn him inside and out, until I can fit into his skin and stay there forever._

So while words are slurred, their breathing ragged, their walk funny, they still try to escape the pressure of fame in ways possible.

**–**

****

_Grammy Awards, 2021._

Cairo’s nominated for the ‘Best Rap Song’ award.

The band of Gavreel’s also nominated for ‘Best Music Video’.

_“And the winner for ‘Best Rap Song’ is . . .”_

Cairo can’t fucking believe it; he’s suddenly walking to the stage to receive a _Grammy_ award.

His hands are slightly shaking, and if he almost trips over the edge, no one important like Beyoncé noticed.

He gives his speech, without forgetting to thank the person that was there for him ever since.

_“Lastly, I want to thank you, you know who you are – for staying by my side throughout this whole journey. You’ve held me high, during moments where I couldn’t myself. Peace and love!”_

Somewhere in the crowd of artists, there was Gavreel sitting beside his band mates.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, could wipe off the smile on his face once Cairo delivered his speech.

Their eyes find each other for a second, their grins beaming at each other, and _this_ matters above all else.

It’s a split-second glance, hardly a moment that you can capture with a camera, but it’s more than enough to plaster a wide ‘U’-shaped happiness on their faces for the rest of the day.

_I feel like I’m walking on air, the thrill a bit overwhelming and scary, but when I look over I see you, not letting go as you hold on my hand as tight._

_Will you stay here with me? I don’t want to go down, if I won’t land with you._

And it’s more fucking wild, because their band also wins their nomination.

Gavreel’s got his arms up, hugging Rex and Jomari, as they slide through the chairs on their way to the stage’s steps.

Each of them say a line, and when it’s Gavreel’s turn he all but _winks_ at the camera as he expresses the words:

_“Here’s to us, my love.”_

If the Showbiz weekly news assumes his ‘love’ is Slyvia, then they are badly mistaken.

–

When night falls, a video of them in the VIP lounge bar of the Grammy’s becomes a Twitter trend.

This exclusive room filled only with the artists invited, has the song _“To Dance Is To Love”_ by Charlie Burg playing on the dance floor.

Gavreel is wearing this flimsy, see-through, sparkly red suit – and there he goes rolling his body towards Cairo.

He’s moonwalking, a drink in hand, swaying his hips while snapping his fingers.

_These kinds of nights tend to haunt me /_

Cairo grooves with him, doing little side steps, even circling his hips to the beat.

To everyone watching them, they don’t need to be hit by the club’s spotlight to shine.

What an unexpected pair, two glitzy diamonds of an artist they are; because it’s rare to see a studded rapper fitting next to a punk bassist.

_/ To dance is to love, baby it’s you and me_

On the other hand, Cairo’s sporting a purple velvet suit jacket, with silver chains hanging around the buttons.

Gavreel’s caught his hand, leading him to twirl in the middle of the dance floor.

_Is it true we want different things? /_

_/ I want you_

Cairo shimmies his arms, then dangles his fingers on top of Gavreel’s hand holding a cocktail glass, taking a sip of his own.

_You asked “Are you good?” I said hardly /_

Then Gavreel doesn’t think _at all,_ when he says ‘fuck it’, and bounces at the chance to jut his hips against Cairo’s. He’s pulling him close, close, and closer – ‘til he’s got the man’s waist locked around his arm grip.

Still moving sideways, he can’t give a _fuck_ (he just can’t, it’s impossible at this point) when Cairo’s carelessly grinding against him as well.

_/ To dance is to love, baby it’s you and me_

They’re not that close to being tipsy, it’s a mania of glitter and booze, too much lights blinding their eyesight, but they can still clearly see each other out of everyone in the room.

The night’s vibe has turned aphrodisiac; yet when did Cairo and Gavreel ever need anything kaleidoscopic, aromatic, or intoxicating to be in the mood for sex?

In the fiery dance floor, there are just two silly lovelorn boys drunk on one another, without a care in the world that someone might gape at them like this.

_

_April, 2018._

_Flight to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil._

__

Hands getting stuck in each other’s undershirt, one vigorously pulling at the belt loops, while he laps on his neck.

Breathless giggles, and disheveled hair almost beyond repair, _“Fuck, why won’t my curls stay put? This is all your fault, baby.”_

_“Says the man who’s lost me my shirt’s button. So messy, Gav! My button!”_

Because are they supposed to apologize? It’s so boring waiting in a twenty-plus hour flight.

So, when tickles and power naps don’t take effect anymore, (plus attempts to do quiet, sloppy, and clumsy handjobs under the tray table) they decide to finally try the “Mile High Club” to get it over with.

And it was a success.

Will they do it again? _Probably._

Practice makes perfect, right?

(Cairo really has to work on his satisfaction threshold during sex, because he’s to blame for all the noises inside the airplane bathroom.)

Cairo tastes so sweet, like he always does, the thick liquid filling Gavreel’s taste buds nicely, and humming around his cock at the release with a ‘pop’.

It turns out, it’s easy to forget about flying at an altitude of no less than 5, 280 ft. above the earth when you’ve got quite literal the taste of _heaven_ in your mouth.

Cairo’s teeth mark him everywhere, Gavreel’s hard nails clawing inches of his skin, and _more, more, give me more_ – they shiver at the thought of _Cristo Redentor statue_ that must be scandalized to welcome them in Rio like this.

_

Gavreel hasn’t answered any of his texts the entire day.

He calls his personal assistant, getting the address of their booked hotel for the night, and drives straight there after his recording.

Cairo’s glad to have finished work early. But he’s been worried non-stop about Gavreel the whole day, so he should be there when he arrives.

 _Get ready to be scolded,_ Cairo thinks.

They haven’t seen each other in weeks. Between his late night recording sessions, and Gavreel’s back-to-back tours, they haven’t gotten the time to schedule a late brunch or a wine night.

No cuddles, no weekend road-trips to the beach, no sending of flower bouquets to each other’s sets at random hours within the day.

He’s bought a pizza box, takeout from that Chinese restaurant which Gavreel likes so much, and two bottles of Jägermeister.

He rings the doorbell twice.

When no one answers, he raps his knuckles on the wooden frame and strides in casually.

To his surprise, Gavreel’s lying on the bed with his body unmoving and pale, with only the little rise and fall of his chest.

Cairo puts down on the floor the items he’s carrying, and then does the only thing he can think of:

He immediately hugs Gavreel from behind, wrapping his arms around him tightly.

Cairo snuggles his head under his chin, pressing Gavreel’s back close against his clothed chest.

They lie there together for a while, just the eerie silence of the room filling the atmosphere.

He’s figured it out quickly. Gavreel has a 40 °C high-degree fever, it’s been tiring his baby this whole time, and he wasn’t there to take care of him.

But don’t fear, Cairo promises that he’ll stay for as long as he can now that he’s here.

When Gavreel wakes up at around 1:30 AM in the evening, he tries to scuffle out of Cairo’s embrace but he’s quick to assure him that it’s just him, and they can still eat dinner if he wants to.

The morning after, it’s bright and early but _shit,_ Cairo has to leave soon to attend his album fan-signing event.

But he doesn’t leave Gavreel without granting his one wish.

He’s the one in a band – between the two of them, but it is _Cairo_ who he has to beg to play the guitar for him.

_It is the rapper that sweetly serenades his sick boy._

Cairo has pushed the hotel sofa to the end of the bed where Gavreel’s lying on his side.

He bunches the baggy sleeves of his shirt up to his shoulders, then strums a few starting notes on Gavreel’s bass guitar.

Then Cairo sings Ben Rector’s “Love Like This”.

_“It's in the way you hold my hand . . .”_

A tiny smile slowly stretches into Gavreel’s face.

_“It's the way I've watched you change me . . .”_

_“From a boy into a man . . .”_

_“It's a million things about you . . . And I don't know what it is . . .”_

He waits until Gavreel finally closes his eyes, with his voice the last thing he hears before drifting back to slumber.

_“But I have never known a love like this . . .”_

After carefully placing his guitar into the case, Cairo sits on the bedside drawer for a minute to steal one last look at Gavreel’s sleeping figure.

Lastly, he kisses Gavreel’s forehead before shutting the door close.

_

Around 7:09 pm in a Friday evening, Cairo decides to do an Instagram live stream.

Until comes this all black icon IG profile account commenting, incessantly:

@DEVIL2000: u look good w the beanie

@DEVIL2000: can i get a shoutout too?

@DEVIL2000: why won’t you reply to my texts?

@DEVIL2000: dms*

Cairo’s smiling, he can’t stop it, – his mouth keeps twitching into a grin, so he has to finish the stream earlier than planned.

The millions of fans watching upload _many_ screenshots of his widely smiling face on Twitter.

_

_One cold night, December 2019._

They sneak into a tattoo shop, hands freezing from the temperature shop, rubbing their palms together to share warmth.

Gavreel’s snuffed out the cigarette they shared earlier, by crushing it using his boot heels on the pavement.

Cairo’s way _too_ giddy, like a kid with sugar rush, and quickly smashes his mouth against Gavreel’s – before setting his arm up for the tattoo ink gun.

He gets a musical note tattooed on his forearm. Gavreel picks a pair of angel wings inked on his wrist.

_

The crowd is roaring.

Red lights blaze throughout the entire stadium, hot, sticky, and sweaty bodies dance for the man performing on stage.

_“How’s everyone doing tonight? Let’s go, make some noise!”_

Under the spotlight, _the_ eminent rapper Cairo Lazaro fuckin’ glows – he is undeniably breathtaking.

The outline of his body is colossal, his moves are stupendous, and his swagger alone is electrifying even from miles away.

The beat strikes, cue the riotous screams from the audience, some hollers, as confetti rains down.

_Ikaw nagpapaliwanag sa aking dilim_

_Isa ka sa dahilan kung ba’t ako ay gising_

_(You light up the darkness inside me_

_You’re one of the reasons why I’m alive)_

And if his latest rap single, “Angel of Peace” hits the charts first thing in the morning . . . it was Gavreel who he sent his very first recording to.

_

_June, 2022._

**_‘LATEST NEWS:_ ** _Gavreel Alarcon the bassist of award-winning “Bai” band caught cheating on model girlfriend? Sources say he’s actually gay’_

Gavreel takes a deep breath.

_“So, live now on National TV – Gavreel Alarcon, what is the truth?”_

He goes in for the kill, the ultimate secret he’s dreamt for so long to finally let out into the world.

“Slyvia Salvador is a very good friend of mine, so I beg you not to drag her into this mess – and she has a name. And the rumors are true; I am _proudly_ a gay man. I have always been. This industry robs you of your right to privacy and gender expression, and I have been one of the many artists that were victimized by the pressure of fame, but more importantly, the immense homophobia that runs in our culture and society. But this ends here. From now on, I will continue to live my truth freely and unapologetically as possible. I only aim to empower the rest of my fellow artists in the industry, that if you are still hiding in the shadows – I was once as scared as you were, the inevitable suffering I had to sacrifice as I sold this distorted love story to the public – but fear no more, the LGBTQIA+ community just deserves to claim justice and acceptance once and for all.”

Newspapers, radio channels, and etc. become crazy-filled with this news, as _the_ bassist Gavreel Alarcon comes out on live TV.

He scurries away from the interview studio, but miserably fails to do so, as multiple paparazzi mob his walkway.

_There’s no looking back from this._

_

_Two days later._

Walking on the lane, Cairo gets ambushed by the press.

He’s wearing shades on, a heavy black knitted sweater and sweatpants.

The paparazzi have _no mercy_ with the ridiculous questions they throw at him. Their camera flashes are blinding, irritatingly squeaky and loud; further crowding him into a corner.

_“Can you explain these photos of you with Gavreel Alarcon?”_

" _Is this all a plot to launch a new rap track?”_

_“What can you say about allegations against you being a fame whore?”_

_“Did you use Ms. Salvador in the PR stunt without her consent?”_

_“Are you coward to admit that you are a gay man?”_

Cairo stops in his tracks.

He looks at the reporter straight in the eye, clenching his jaw and directly faces a camera to say:

“I am no longer a coward to admit that I’m a gay man. I’ve known him for such a long time, we’ve worked together on multiple projects, and my admiration for his artistry remains. With his recent speech, Gavreel Alarcon gave me the bravery to tell my own truth. The media has no right to manipulate our lives into news that only satisfies their interests; and I sincerely apologize for lying to the fans, I will do better next time and work harder to gain back their trust. Most of all, I am terribly in love with Gavreel Alarcon – he deserves nothing of the slander. _I will fight for him. I will fight for us.”_

_

When he enters the concert grounds, there is Gavreel Alarcon on stage; performing every fucking bit of his _heart_ out.

He’s mesmerizing, vigorous in the way he moves; those brown irises magnetic.

Lit by the spotlight as he drips in sweat, no one can focus anywhere else: but his shiny lips that sing, _And I'd love it if we made it!_

Every time he jumps in the air with his bass guitar, he has to push back his curls, to remove them from his eye line.

_“Modernity has failed us and I’d I'd love it if we made it!”_

Cairo bounces his head, losing himself in the music, the sound of his heavy footsteps against the metal floors.

It’s not long after their concert finishes off.

The band raises their connected fists in the air, hugging each other close then doing a bow.

_“Thank you all for coming tonight!”_

Before the fans start to crowd outside, Cairo steps into the open stadium.

He’s fidgeting with his knuckles, trying to pinch the fabric of his shirt. Cairo even adjusts his chain necklace, but it’s so hard when he notices the tattoo he got on his forearm.

The littlest things remind him of his bassist boy.

So.

When’s ready to leave the concert grounds, to get inside his black Lamborghini, his walk stops short.

Cairo feels a hand over his own, the softest of fingers trail on his pinky first . . . as it fully clasps his palm close.

_It feels like home._

Light, warm, and bright.

He looks over his shoulder to find Gavreel, smiling down at him while they hold hands.

Gavreel tightens his grip on his hand, but he’s still in shock as he says, “You’re not supposed to be here,”

“Left early. Must be something about being part of the band? I dunno. I told them, I have to catch up with my _boyfriend_ ,”

“You’re so annoying, _baby.”_ Cairo can only laugh, the term of endearment rolling off his lips so easy.

“I don’t care. For the first time, in what feels like forever . . . I’ve got everything I ever wanted.”

Cairo doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just pulls him closer as they walk out the stadium.

“I love you.” He whispers into Gavreel’s ear.

But before the man can respond, Cairo grins widely at him, dragging him along as they run out the entrance with their entwined fingers.

They turn their faces to the view – to see millions of fans that have waited for their arrival.

Big smiles, waving hands, and tears spill from their eyes. Their applause rings the entire place.

_This is freedom._

_Onto a life filled with less regrets, just love, and a whole universe of these two stars colliding._

__

**Author's Note:**

> Songs used
> 
> [1] “Little White Lies” by Flyte  
> [2] “If We’d Never Met” by Gabe Bondoc  
> [3] “To Dance Is To Love” by Charlie Burg  
> [4] “Love Like This” by Ben Rector  
> [5] “Angel of Peace” by Elijah Canlas  
> [6] “Love It If We Made It” by The 1975
> 
> References:
> 
> [1] https://www.healthline.com/health/panic-attack-vs-anxiety-attack#causes  
> [2] https://www.healthline.com/health/how-to-help-someone-having-a-panic-attack#keep-them-grounded


End file.
